


Slow Hand

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Masturbation, Other, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>deanoned kink meme fill</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Hand

“You need… _what_?” Drift had figured that at this point, he could take just about anything in stride, but this? This was a bit, well, surprising. And maybe he hadn’t heard it quite right over the bustle and noise of the medibay.   
  
Maybe it was just the fact that it was First Aid saying it. Maybe it was the way First Aid seemed to stammer his way through it, staring at his mediscanner like he expected it to start moving.   
  
“Uh, uh well, I mean, it’s the best way to rule out if you’ve been exposed to the phroxites,” First Aid said. “It’s a nanoscopic parasite and…,” he gave a timid sort of shrug, “you don’t want to have them. Especially if they move to the larval stage."   
  
“But….” Drift couldn’t keep the weirded-out tone from his voice. Because it was weird. But...larval stage. That sounded bad. 

  
  
“Well, we can get a sample using one of these,” First Aid said, turning to a cabinet and drawing out a weird sort of bulb and metal tube contraption that looked…positively archaic. Drift didn’t even want to know if how he thought that thing worked was at all how it actually worked. His spike seemed to cringe in its housing.   
  
“Or....”   
  
“Or manually, yes.” First Aid said, nodding.   
  
Manually. Oh Primus.   
  
“I. Uh. All right. That way. Manually.”   
  
First Aid’s shoulders seemed to relax, relieved. “I’ll get the catch container.”  
  
Drift blinked. “I have to do it…here?” The medibay was bustling with the usual midmorning crowd: mechs coming in for their routine maintenance, one or two minor mishaps from rivet guns or welders. And Drift, feeling entirely and ridiculously self-conscious as he sat on the exam berth, hands curling over the edge.   
  
“We could, uh, I could set you up in one of the private rooms for a cycle? It’s not much better, but it is at least,” he stumbled forward, jostled by Chromedome’s shoulder, “uh, private.”

[***]

It was private, sure enough, Drift thought, sitting down on the plastic sheet First Aid had draped over the berth. “In case,” First Aid had explained, sheepishly, “You know, there’s a sort of misfire incident.”  
  
Misfire incident. Drift didn’t want to know if that was the technical term. He didn’t want to think about it. Because thinking about that kind of thing sometimes made it happen. So he just settled down, letting the plastic crackle and bunch under him as he tried to wriggle himself into some sort of comfortable position. And tried not to think about the cold metal under his shoulders. And the sterile smell. And the harsh lighting. And the just…well, the generalized unsexiness of this whole thing.   
  
Right. He had to produce a transfluid sample. Either this way or that…thing First Aid had shown him.   
  
Frag there is just no way this wasn’t weird. Then again, it was hardly the weirdest thing he’d ever done.   
  
He cycled a long vent of air, trying to relax and think, well, sexy thoughts. Sexy thoughts. Right. Sexy thoughts. Sexy thoughts like Perceptor cleaning his rifle, his body curled almost possessively over the gun. Or Wing, his sunlight smile. What he’d imagine he would do with Wing if he ever saw him again, if he would allow himself to appreciate what he’d been too proud to take before, to slide his palms over those flightpanels, bury his face in Wing’s neck, smell the clean sweet scent of him.   
  
He felt a little tremor, like a feathering of air over his armor, sending little tingles of sensation, delicate and faint. Drift let his optics dim, moving one hand to trace the echo of that sensation. A hum escaped his vocalizer, a sound to carry vibration through his frame, sultry and rich. His other hand stirred, sliding over his hip, fanned fingers moving over his pelvic frame, fingertips teasing at the seams of his interface hatch.   
  
Not yet. Not yet. He had time and besides, no one was watching.   
  
[***]

  
“This? This is the best idea I’ve ever had,” Swerve said, peering into the feed, eagerly. “All right, maybe not the best, but definitely top five. Top five for sure.”   
  
“Top ten,” Chromedome said, leaning forward to lay a hand on Rewind’s shoulder, where the smaller mech was patched into the Medibay feeds. “Remember, half this idea is mine, so you only get half-credit.”   
  
“You know,” Swerve said, “I’d argue that with you but a) I hate math and b) right now, better things to do. Like watch this.” This was of course the feed from the private exam room Gamma, where, right now, a certain ex-Decepticon was sprawled—maybe not sprawled, because that was totally an unsexy sort of word and that was totally and definitely a sexy pose—his hands moving over his armor in ways that shut even Swerve up. “Just saying, my half is the good half.”  
  
“What about my part?” Rewind said, the wires that connected his helm to the monitor bank shifting as he turned his head to face Swerve. “I’m the one doing the work.”  
  
“That’s your job then,” Swerve said. “You’re the one doing the work. The know how guy. I’m just the guy with the brilliant ideas.”  
  
“I thought that was Brainstorm,” Rewind said.   
  
“Brainstorm’s the evil genius. I’m the, uh, I don’t know. The good genius.” The good genius who got ideas about recording Drift having a little special time. You know, for posterity.   
  
“Good genius,” Chromedome muttered. “Whatever.”  
  
“Whatever is right.” Rewind tapped at the screen. “Getting to the good stuff here.”

[***]

Drift felt his body warm, current coursing through his capacitors, setting his whole sensor array tingling. The tingling seemed to fizz its way through his body to pool in his interface equipment, an effervescent sort of pressure behind his spike. He could feel it twitch awake, feel the small sting of lubricant beading up the channels to the surface.   
  
He let his engines hum, optics lidding gently, toning down the harsh light to a sort of white glow, letting one hand graze over his interface hatch again, feeling the build of heat and the plush resistance of the EM field. It felt decadent and wonderful, even as his hand moved to open the hatch. He was warm enough that the air of the room was cool to him, striking at his equipment covers with a cool, delicious shock.   
  
Drift’s spike surged behind its cover, bumping the thin petals. He let one finger circle the cover, idly, teasing himself, even as his hips surged upward, wanting more.   
  
Not….yet. Drift moved his hand away, his brow contracting, frustrated, under his helm, as he let his other hand rake lightly up his spread thigh. It was close to what his spike wanted, close enough to be maddening, but not enough.   
  
He cycled a deep vent of air, sighing it out, feeling tension drain from his frame. The whole point of overload was a release of excess static charge, right? It should feel good. It could and he had ignored that part for far too long, or treated it perfunctorily, chasing the overload, rushing through all the intermediate, and wonderful, steps.

He knew better now.   
  
This would be…hilarious to tell Perceptor, he thought, and his mouth curved into an indulgent, affectionate smile. ‘Hey, guess what I did this afternoon while you were recalibrating the gnomex fabricator?’   
  
Maybe he’d be jealous that he missed out. Maybe he’d want a little, you know, private show.   
  
Ohhhhh.   
  
His spike stabbed into the irised-closed cover for a microklik before the cover yielded, unfurling open, and the spike itself jutted out, black and red and already glossy from lubricant. What would Perceptor think of this, huh? He grinned, tipping his head up to look down the broad plane of his chestplate at his own spike, rigid and wet, begging for touch. Maybe Perceptor would make him continue. Maybe Perceptor would stop him here, and bend down, taking the spike’s head in his mouth.   
  
Drift moaned at the thought, his spike twitching, almost vexed that it was fantasy and not real. He moved his hand to his spike, rubbing one slow thumb over the head, smearing the lubricant around it. Just one thumb, just one point of contact, all of his body’s awareness tracking the small, circular pattern he traced on the spike’s head, his hips tensing.   
  
More. He wanted more. His hand slipped down, circling his spike with the thumb and forefinger, sliding down the length of the spike’s shaft, riding down the overlapping plates to the base mounting plate. He squeezed, then, a small ring around the base of the spike, holding it for a moment, feeling the rest of his spike tingle and throb.   
  
Good. Frag, it felt good. And more when he moved his hand up, wrapping a second finger around the spike, and then dragging the tight ring of his fingers up the spike…just shy of the base of the spike’s head. He groaned, lubricant welling over the spike, his entire system alive and tingling.   
  
The thought of Perceptor watching, those blue optics like another ghostly hand caressing him, feeding off his desire, was intoxicating, sending a wash of desire, like a wall of flame, through him.

Oh, he’d put on a show for Perceptor….

[***]

First Aid probably should have told Drift this part. No, definitely. He definitely should have told him that it was protocol for this kind of sample collection that the collection be observed, to prevent tampering or substitution. But there hadn’t seemed a good time, and they were both so full of awkwardness and stammers, that First Aid wasn’t sure he could have gotten the words out without fainting of embarrassment.   
  
So he felt a bit like a guilty creep, even as he finally finished filling out the forms and logged the observation, as he cued up the room’s video feed.   
  
….oh. Oh dear. Oh…my. Well. Drift was certainly taking this, well…seriously. Then again, he seemed to do everything seriously. But this was seriously something else. First Aid felt his systems tingle, as though vibrating to the same high, delicious note of music, as he saw Drift, optics lidded, mouth in a mysterious half-smile. The mech’s body was a series of sinuous lines, inviting the optics to travel over and over, like a map with a thousand beautiful routes and destinations.   
  
And, well, that destination: the red and black of the spike, highlighted with gloss, being slowly squeezed, milked, almost, by Drift’s one hand, his other squeezing at the plastic sheet First Aid had laid on the exam table, almost kneading at the white material.   
  
First Aid’s optics flicked to the door of the office, checking on the lock, before scooting forward in his seat to get a better look.   
  
[***]  
  
He didn’t need fantasy, now, just his own hand, his own body. The hip sheaths slid over the plastic with velvety sounds, nearly buried in the husky growl from his main engine, as his hand worked its slow way up and down the spike. Charge built, like a wall of water, pushed and pulled by his strokes, and he began, now, to flick his thumb over the spike’s head at the upstroke, his body giving little shudders of shock and pleasure with each teasing flick.   
  
Drift’s vents came deep and fast, now, venting heat in gusts of air that eddied over his armor. His entire attention was fixed on his spike, the exquisite build of pressure and sensation under the surface, tantalized by his hand’s languorous movements. Every particle of his awareness was in his body: there was no room for fantasy, for any thought other than processing the influx of feedback of right now: the tingling against his palm as he sped up his strokes, the quickening heat of his spike, the plastic sheet somehow silky under his shifting hips, his nearly-moaning vents, and the sweet scent of heated lubricant.   
  
He could feel the overload coming, like a distant wave approaching, the way everything seemed to pull him inexorably toward it, sweeping him down and then flinging him up, almost out of himself, out of his body, a wave of pure, bright energy crashing around him, through him. He barely had enough sense of self to clap the sample vial over his spike’s head, barely beating the race of transfluid up his spike’s release channel. He lay, rocking from the intensity, watching the small container fill, in quick, hard spurts of silver, with his fluid.   
  
Somehow watching it—the force of the jet, the amount of it, rolled him into another overload, something deeper and richer, and his hands fell to his side, clutching the container, as he slipped into a sort of delirious bliss.

[***]

Oh. Oh Primus, First Aid thought, his entire body aching with lust as he watched. Oh this was…wow he was really glad he was here, in private, his faceplates burning, hands trembling, his spike nearly howling at him, than following strict protocol. He couldn’t imagine being in the same room with that and not like spontaneously bursting into flames from the hotness. Right. He had to compose himself and go down there, collect the, erm, the sample, and then bring it to testing.   
  
A vial of Drift’s transfluid. Probably still warm.   
  
Thank Primus for facemasks.   
  
He pushed himself standing, palms on the console, his knees feeling weak as though he’d done more than just watch, even with a slightly unprofessional amount of interest. He moved to close the video feed when he noticed a little blink in the lower corner. First Aid was no spy, but he had an attention to detail and he knew what that meant. And it didn’t take him long to figure out who would be behind this.   
  
[***]  
  
“Frag!” Rewind jumped, his hands snatching at the hacking cables he’d used to break into the medibay cameras. “We’ve been found out.”   
  
“Found out?” Chromedome caught one of the cables, helping wind it. “How?”  
  
“I don’t know! I mean I guess it’s because I was trying to hack a straight feed, so I didn’t use any encryption or anything.” Rewind seemed almost panicked.   
  
“You didn’t…use protection,” Swerve said, dubious. Right. He was out of here. Whatever that meant--and it sounded weird--it wasn't good.   
  
“It’s a medibay feed!” Rewind said. “Who malwares a medibay? Besides, it’s just…yeah, they’re onto us.” He tilted his head, as though catching more of a message.   
  
“We’re dead,” Chromedome said, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s it. We’re dead and Ratchet’s going to have our diodes for a lunch salad. Which he will eat while sitting on a pile of our dead parts.”

  
“ _You_ ’re dead,” Swerve said. “You were the perverts recording this. Seriously. I don’t know why I let you guys talk me into this. Contributing to the delinquency of a Swerve, that’s what you ought to be charged with.”  He huffed and when that didn't seem to have the proper effect, huffed again.   
  
Chromedome poked at Rewind’s camera. “Not so fast, motormouth. we have proof, remember? This was one of your top five ideas, right, 'good genius'?”   
  
“It’s not that bad,” Rewind said, his hands spread, in the air of trying to force everyone, including himself, to calm down. “It’s not Ratchet. It’s First Aid. And he swears he won’t tell Ratchet, if….”  
  
“If what?” Chromedome and Swerve spoke on top of each other, then turned to glare, hotly, at each other.   
  
“If we put on the same, uh, performance. Training videos for, uh, this kind of sample collection.”   
  
“First Aid,” Swerve said, and his voice had a little note of awe to it. “Genius. Just…genius.”  
  
“The evil kind?”   
  
“No. The _my_ kind,” Swerve said, rubbing his hands together. The kinky kind. This? This could be the start of something grand.


End file.
